DCI James Hardy Series Boxset

by Jay Gill

  “You need to make some new friends,” said Rayner as we approached the front door. “Serial killers will never want to simply hang out with you, drink beer and watch the Cup Final, you know.”

  His wisecracking meant he was on edge. We both were. His eyes told me he knew as well as I did we could be walking into a trap. His body language also told me I wouldn’t have a cat in hell’s chance of stopping him going into the house with me. If there was any chance at all of saving a life, Rayner was going in. Rayner knew the same went for me.

  I checked the front window but couldn’t see inside.

  “I’ll go ’round back,” said Rayner. “Give me the count of twenty.”

  I nodded and watched him disappear down the side of the house.

  “. . .Seven, eight, nine, ten,” I counted to myself. When I got to twenty, I knocked on the front door and called out: “Police. This is the police.” I knocked again, louder. Nothing. I hammered my fist and rang the doorbell and called out again. Nothing. Then the door chain rattled and the lock clicked. I stepped back. The door opened. It was Rayner.

  “The back of the house is all open,” he said.

  Neither of us knew whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. Rayner headed back through the house to the kitchen. I stood in the hallway for a moment and simply listened. The house was quiet. Rayner and I made eye contact and I indicated I was headed to the front room on my right. I pushed open the door and caught the strong smell of cigarette smoke. I stepped into the 1970s-style front room. Beside the bay window was an old woman in a chair. Cigarette packets were piled high on the table beside her and boxes were scattered at her feet. Her head was back, covered in a plastic bag. I removed the bag, but the old lady was ice cold and had no pulse.

  His own mother was now another name on Baker’s list. What was going through his head? What did he want? I listened numbly as Rayner called for an ambulance.

  Upstairs I heard scratching, a rapid, repetitive scratching. We made our way up the stairs to the second floor. Rayner went first and I covered him. The scratching was getting louder; it would last a few seconds then stop. Then start again. At the top of the stairs were five doors. The scratching was coming from the second door on the right. Rayner and I raised our guns and approached with caution.

  There was silence, and then the scratching started again. My heart was pounding. I raised my weapon, ready to fire if necessary. Rayner grabbed the door handle and in one quick, smooth motion swung open the door. There in the dark stood a small dog, a pug. He looked at the two of us for a moment with huge, glossy black eyes, gave a short, sharp bark, then ran between us and disappeared down the stairs.

  “We’ll question him later,” said Rayner, trying to relieve the tension. Right now, I was in no mood for wisecracks; I felt sure this wasn’t over. Baker was sending me a message; my fear was that it would be grotesque and bloody. Baker was upping his game and he wanted me to know it.

  We moved to the next room, which was the bathroom. It was empty; I felt a mixture of anxiety and relief. The next room was a small bedroom. Again nothing. The next room was smaller and appeared to have been used as an office but was now almost empty. There was no computer, and only bare shelves and an empty filing cabinet.

  The final room was locked. The key was missing. I knew from the sick feeling in my stomach that the gift promised by Simon Baker was behind this door. Rayner took position to cover me. I took a step back and threw my shoulder at the door.

  The room burst into view in all its horrifying glory.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  In all honesty, I wasn’t prepared for what we encountered next. No furniture, no decoration, just bare walls and floorboards. The room was empty. Empty except for the woman hanging by her arms and neck. Suspended in mid-air, she looked like she had been crucified on an invisible cross. Instead of a crucifix to hold her, however, a noose came down from the ceiling and was biting into her neck. Ropes fastened to each wall held her arms outstretched. Her ankles were bound and her feet were resting on a box. Her head was flopped forward and her long hair covered her face. There were streaks of blood on her chest, stomach and legs.

  I holstered my gun and ran forward. Outside, sirens wailed. Officers and paramedics were arriving, yet my world at that moment had shrunk to what was right in front of me. I grabbed the woman and held her while Rayner cut the ropes. We laid her on the floor and I gently swept aside her hair and checked for a pulse. I didn’t need to; she opened her eyes and began coughing and shaking violently, pushing me away and making an awful animal-like moan. Her mouth, chin and neck were caked in dried blood. Her scared eyes stared at me.

  “She’s alive,” I called over my shoulder to Rayner. “She’s alive. Get a paramedic, now!”

  The woman went quiet and calm.

  “You’re going to be fine,” I told her. “You’re safe. I’m a police officer – we’re police officers. Paramedics are on their way. It’s over now. You’ve been so brave. It’s all over; you’re safe. I promise. You’re going to be okay. Can you tell me your name?”

  She didn’t speak. Her calm evaporated and she put a hand to her mouth and sobbed hysterically. Rayner returned with a duvet and we covered her. She felt so small in my arms and I continued to hold her trembling body.

  “Paramedics are coming,” I said soothingly. “They’re coming up the stairs. They’ll be here any second.”

  Rayner was agitated and angry. He paced the room, looking at the small ornate box the woman had been standing on. He walked around it, knelt down beside it, got back up and began pacing again.

  I knew what was inside long before Rayner told me.

  I looked sympathetically into the woman’s eyes. Her body was spasming, and periodically she rocked from side to side in my arms. Her howls of anguish and sorrow went right through me, but I held her and did my best to comfort her.

  Paramedics came into the room now and moved quickly to stabilise the woman. Her belongings had now been found and identified her as Lucy-Ann Chandler, age fifty-seven, a popular and outspoken radio and television arts critic. She, like the other victims, had been shocked and outraged when she’d heard of Simon Baker’s deception and treatment of his talented wife and had publicly denounced him, as had the others.

  I watched as the paramedics lifted Lucy-Ann into the back of the ambulance, then looked across the street to the house where Rayner was briefing the forensics team. He and I have known each other for a long time and he knew what I was thinking. Neither of us needed to say anything.

  Rayner took charge of the crime scene and I watched as he co-ordinated the teams. Everyone was keen to do their part in an effort to put an end to Baker’s madness. I needed to escape; Baker was getting to my head. I needed space to take stock. In a split-second decision, I climbed into the back of the ambulance. In that moment, I needed to feel like I was being of help, and if that meant nothing more than comforting this terrified woman, then so be it.

  I sat with Lucy-Ann until early evening. She had been sedated to help with the shock and her pain. She had drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the day. Her stillness gave me time to think, and seeing her injuries gave me further impetus, if any were needed, to stop Baker once and for all.

  Throughout the day faces from the forensic and fingerprint team came and went; they needed samples for comparison. Her husband and grown-up sons were on their way and would arrive around midnight; they were driving the four hundred-plus miles from Edinburgh. They’d want answers, and I’d have questions, but not right away. First, they’d need time as a family to cry and to comfort one another.

  Lucy-Ann was sleeping and I doubt she heard me, but I whispered to her I was leaving for a while and that I’d be back soon. I was of the opinion that Baker’s plan had been to inflict pain and humiliation on Lucy-Ann; if he’d wanted her dead, he’d have done it. So even though I didn’t anticipate any further threat from Baker, I decided to station an officer outside her hospital room.

 
I sat in my car in the hospital car park and called Rayner. He hadn’t calmed down that much, if at all.

  “He cut out her tongue,” he said through gritted teeth. “He cut out her tongue and put it in the box, and then made her stand on it. What sort of monster does that? I have never wanted anyone so bad. We have to catch this prick, whatever it takes. Whatever it takes.”

  “What did the note say?” I asked.

  “How did you know there was a note?”

  I ignored the question and Rayner repeated the note’s message: Your mother should have told you to watch your tongue. Well, now you can.

  We talked for an hour or so and then he told me to get home and get some rest. He insisted there was nothing that couldn’t wait until after a good night’s sleep. I drove out of the car park but I couldn’t go home. Something was eating away at me; I was missing something. So instead of turning left out of the car park, I turned right and headed back to Scotland Yard.

  Fuelled by coffee, I spent the night re-examining the case notes, re-reading reports, listening to recordings, comparing photographs and going over Baker’s family history. I listened over and over to his call to me. I needed to understand Baker better than I did. I needed to understand who he really was, why he was doing what he was doing.

  Baker had been one step ahead of me at every stage. If I wanted to catch this man, I needed to know his next move, and that meant knowing more about how he thought. I had come to the decision over the course of the last few days that the fraud case and the imprisonment of his wife were only a small part of a bigger picture. I was now convinced that if I began to dig deep enough, I’d discover what was really driving Baker to act out his horrific fantasies. Why take the risk of punishing the victims so dramatically?

  These crimes had to be more than simple revenge. They had all been elaborate and unnecessarily staged: he was making statements. I needed to figure out why he took the time and risk. If I wanted to figure out where he was going next, I needed to figure out where he’d been and who the real Simon Baker was.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  At 10.35 a.m. I walked into Rayner’s office and put a photograph down in front of him. He stopped eating his breakfast sandwich and looked up at me.

  “You look terrible. You’ve been here all night, haven’t you?”

  I ignored the question. “He’s here,” I said, and pointed to a small cottage in the picture. It was on a hilltop overlooking a Cornish beach. In front of the cottage stood two adults and a child about nine years of age. “This is where it started,” I said. “That’s Simon Baker, and those are his parents.”

  Rayner took another bite of his sandwich and looked at me and then again at the picture. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, so they went on holiday to the Cornish coast. What am I missing?”

  I grabbed the remaining half of Rayner’s sandwich and sat down. “As a child, Simon Baker’s family stayed at his grandparents’ cottage in Saint Ives, Cornwall. They were well-known local artists and ran creative workshops. When his grandmother and grandfather passed away, the property passed to Baker’s mother. I checked, and it’s still in her name. The property will most likely pass to him, but that isn’t relevant right now. What is relevant is that Baker still visits the property from time to time for purposes of maintenance.”

  Rayner looked unconvinced. “You’re thinking he’s hiding out there?”

  “There’s more. This isn’t the first time Baker has experienced what he would consider rough justice. It turns out his grandfather was accused of raping an eleven-year-old local schoolgirl when Baker was just nine. Baker saw the whole sorry story play out in all the local and national newspapers. It was a real scandal at the time. The grandfather protested his innocence, but locally he received death threats and suffered violent abuse, and one of the barns he used as a workshop was burned to the ground.

  “Eventually it was proved another man had raped the girl, a man from out of the area with a string of sex offences to his name. By that time, it was too late. The damage to Baker’s grandfather’s reputation was done. Baker senior became more and more depressed. Rumours continued unabated, and he realised he’d never completely clear his name, that there would always be those who talked behind his back, that the slander would continue.

  “One morning Baker’s grandfather walked out to the nearest cliff edge, just a minute or so from the cottage, and blew his brains out with a shotgun.

  “Young Simon was staying with them at the time and it was he who found the body. His grandmother never recovered from the shock. Heartbroken, she passed away within a few months.”

  Rayner sat silent for a few moments. “But Simon Baker actually did commit his crime. He was actually found guilty. He served his time,” he said doubtfully.

  “Yes, I know, I know, but in his own warped mind he still feels some miscarriage of justice took place. Unlike his grandfather, Baker has gone on a rampage, taking vengeance on those who spread rumours or reported on his crime.”

  Rayner scratched his head furiously. “Where does that actually get us?”

  “Guess what date Baker’s grandfather took his life.”

  Rayner shook his head. “I don’t know. Yesterday?”

  “Very close,” I said. “In just three days’ time, it will be the anniversary of his grandfather’s suicide. If this is all about Baker seeking some sort of mixed-up recompense, not only for himself but his grandparents, he’s going to go back to the cottage. He may eventually be going somewhere safe, maybe out of the country, but I can almost guarantee he’ll visit the cottage first. He may even already be there.”

  “What about his wife? What about Mrs Baker? Surely he’d go after her next. Surely she’s unfinished business.”

  I paused for a moment. Was this more about his wife than his childhood? I doubted it. My gut told me he was going back to where this had all started. But what if I was wrong? Was tiredness playing tricks on me?

  “I’m going to the cottage in Cornwall,” I told Rayner. “You look after Mrs Baker. Speak to her and guard her around the clock if you have to. Let’s not take any chances.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Entering the sleepy house through the back door had proved to be no challenge at all. His excitement now surged to another level, and he tried to remain cool and collected, but his whole body was tingling with anticipation. He ran a gloved hand along the kitchen worktop and opened the fridge. The open door lit up the dark kitchen. He pulled out a couple of grapes and popped them into his mouth. Juicy. He wanted to linger, take his time, extend the pleasure.

  He stayed as long as he could downstairs, taking in the feel of the home, going through newly washed and folded clothes, clothes ready for ironing. Silently moving through the rooms, he looked at framed photos, smelled scented candles, picked up and replaced ornaments. He smelled the soaps in the downstairs shower room. Jasmine. He went back to the kitchen and sifted through the dirty clothes waiting in the washing machine. Holding them close. Smelling them.

  Finally, he reached sensory overload and headed for the hall stairs. He touched his back pocket, took out the rope and wound it twice then three times around his left hand.

  He climbed the stairs, listening. I’m here for you, honey. I’m here at last. His whole body was buzzing now. This was taking him to a whole new level of euphoria. The only downside was he had to make the fun look like someone else had done it. He’d thought about that long and hard and decided the payoff was worth it. The look of astonishment on her face would be worth it. When she realised that his would be the last face she ever saw, the sacrifice would be worth it. The last face in her lifetime. He’d take a souvenir. No, two: one for him, one for a friend.

  He gently pushed at the bedroom door. For a moment his whole body trembled, then calm washed over him. Purpose and focus took over. The curtains were open and moonlight streamed into the room. The silvery moonlight created a magical scene. Mrs Baker was on her side with her back to him. She wants me to surprise her.
He felt breathless. There in front of him was her perfectly peaceful contoured shape. Her hair like silk on the pillow. The curves of her body. He gazed at the satin sheet, which rested on her legs then flowed up over her hips, down to her waist, smoothly back up to her soft shoulders, and finally down again to rest on her delicate neck.

  He gripped the rope tighter and held himself back a moment longer to savour and capture this image of perfection. Exquisite.

  With lightning speed, he bounded across the room and in one movement lifted her head, wrapped the cord around her neck, and pulled it tight. Gotcha! Not too tight but just enough. He needed her to turn, to see his face. He needed her to look into his eyes, to see recognition. She must know.

  Immediately he knew something was wrong. He’d done this enough times to know it didn’t feel right. There was no real weight to the body. Then all hell broke loose. Shouting. Lights. Guns. Police. He froze, then sat back on the bed. He turned his head and looked down at Mrs Baker. She was a dummy, a fake. Her grotesque synthetic face looked at him, taunted him. Who’s the dummy now?

  Rayner took out his phone and called the Yard. They’d made an arrest, but it wasn’t Simon Baker.

  Chapter Seventy

  I was driving with my foot to the floor, on my way to Cornwall. I felt strong, but I knew in reality I was exhausted. Like so many times before, I was running on strong coffee and adrenaline. My head and body were a swirling ball of anticipation and fear.